


Coffee and Camomile

by anythingbutplatonic



Category: Glee
Genre: AU, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2015-06-10
Packaged: 2018-04-03 19:12:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4111927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anythingbutplatonic/pseuds/anythingbutplatonic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: Barista!Kurt meets college dropout!Blaine who quit school when he found out he was pregnant. When the other father walks out on him, he ends up at the Spotlight Diner, where he meets Kurt. They hit it off right away. Mpreg!AU. Originally posted on Tumblr November 29th 2014.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coffee and Camomile

The morning shift was always the worst.

He was expected to be at the diner by the time it opened at 8am, after which he would fill sugar pots and get the coffee machines going, filing the small staff area with steam and the fragrant scent of coffee beans, before rushing off to give the tables a quick spritz and a shine, wiping down and replacing the laminated menu cards on each one, and making sure that all the cups were stacked and ready before the first customers started to troop in at 8:30. Working parents, mostly, tired-looking moms grabbing a coffee before dropping their kids off at daycare, men in pressed suits who ordered espressos, hold the sugar, and a significant group of younger people, interns fresh out of college quick to buy up all the lemon and blueberry and pecan muffins, probably the only thing they’d eat for the next eight hours.

It’s hectic and crowded and Kurt is rushed off his feet, taking orders and making coffees of all combinations, trying to remember the customers’ names to write on their cups, apologizing profusely when he forgets and has to ask them to repeat it. Most of them don’t mind, giving him a sympathetic smile and a thanks when he hands them their coffees and their muffins, before rushing out the door with their cellphones pressed to their ears.

By the end of it, his feet are throbbing and his back aches, he’s starting to get a migraine from the cacophony of the machines whirring and the babble of talk and clattering of cups and spoons, and,  _oh God_ , he’s sweating through his uniform and is probably red in the face from running around for four hours without stopping, and he unties his apron with relief as he says goodbye to his boss, Maria, and the other baristas, and makes a mental plan of the rest of his day as he walks to the subway and then - home. _  
_

 

 _Home_. God, even  _thinking_  the word is enough to send shivers of pleasure and expectation up Kurt’s spine. Home means a hot shower and something quick to eat while he checks his emails, then a couple hours’ rest before he has to head out to dance rehearsal. It’s not much, but it’s enough, and with his schedule as hectic as it is, he’s grateful for any free time he gets.

The moment he walks in the door of the apartment he shares with Rachel and Santana, his very best (though sometimes not very nice) girlfriends from high school, he pulls off his jacket and hangs it on the hook on the inside of the door, dumps his keys on the counter and reaches for an aspirin and a glass of water. They’re both out, so he has the place to himself. Toeing off his shoes, he pulls his scarf from his throat and sets to rummaging around the cupboards to see what’s edible enough for him to make into something worth eating. 

Hmmm. Maybe he’ll just order take-out this one time.

But first - shower.

Kurt takes his time, letting the water warm up while he steps out of his sweaty work clothes, cringing when he sees the large patches of sweat under the arms of the standard issue red shirt. He leaves his clothes in a pile on the bathroom floor and steps under the steaming shower, letting the hot water wash away the dirt and grime and the smell of fast food and coffee that seems to stick to  _everything_. He scrubs himself pink and uses his very best shampoo, working it all the way through the ends of his hair to make sure every last bit of diner residue is gone. If he turned up to dance rehearsal smelling like he slept next to a deep-fat fryer, he’d never hear the end of it from Cassie “Crazy” July. 

Eventually, Kurt finishes his shower, his skin rosy-pink from the water and his hair dripping into his eyes. Grabbing a towel he’d left over the hamper earlier, he wrapped it around himself and padded out into the kitchen, picked up his cell and tried to decide whether he wanted Chinese or Thai food.

***

Blaine could feel Marcus’ eyes boring into his back as he moved around the room, packing what little he’d brought with him when they’d moved in together into the cardboard boxes currently sitting on the bed - Blaine tried so hard not to think “their bed” - and desperately trying to ignore the stinging at the backs of his own eyes. He would not cry in front of Marcus. He would  _not_. 

“Come on, Blaine. We need to be reasonable about this,” Marcus implored from the doorway. “You know this isn’t practical, right? We've  _just_  started college. We can’t have a  _kid!”_

Blaine ignored him resolutely, carefully placing his meticulously folded clothes into one of the boxes; sweaters, organized by colour, a bright rainbow that hurt his eyes. 

“You know I’m right. That’s why you’re not saying anything. You won’t say anything because you  _know_  I’m right.”

 _Go away_. The thought was in his head, but he couldn’t seem to make the words come out of his mouth.  _Go away. Leave me alone. You’ve done enough damage, so just leave me alone!_

“Okay, okay - I’m sorry. I’m sorry, alright? I’ll leave you alone to - pack up your stuff, if that’s the way you want to play it.”

Had he actually said that out loud? Perhaps his thoughts hadn’t been as quiet as they’d seemed. He heard Marcus’ footsteps retreating, then they disappeared altogether when a door - the kitchen? - slammed shut. 

Then, finally,  _finally,_ Blaine let himself really feel what he’d felt since he’d sat Marcus down the previous evening and told him he was pregnant.

Regret. Anger. Sadness. Terror. Rejection. Abandonment. 

And that didn’t even cover the half of it.

Marcus had stared at him blankly across the table, his brow furrowed in apparent confusion. "You’re what?“ 

Blaine had repeated what he’d said a few seconds earlier;  _I’m pregnant_. 

Marcus had scraped his chair back, stood up, walked across the room to their bedroom, and slammed it shut.

Then the throwing had started.

Books, photo frames, even the pillows on the bed had all been thrown at the walls, the back of the door, landing with a  _thump-smack-thud_  in quick succession as Blaine had sat alone at the table, grinding his jaw to stop it from quivering as tears burned in his eyes.

rainbow that hurt his eyes. 

"You know I’m right. That’s why you’re not saying anything. You won’t say anything because you  _know_  I’m right.”

 _Go away_. The thought was in his head, but he couldn’t seem to make the words come out of his mouth.  _Go away. Leave me alone. You’ve done enough damage, so just leave me alone!_

“Okay, okay - I’m sorry. I’m sorry, alright? I’ll leave you alone to - pack up your stuff, if that’s the way you want to play it.”

Had he actually said that out loud? Perhaps his thoughts hadn’t been as quiet as they’d seemed. He heard Marcus’ footsteps retreating, then they disappeared altogether when a door - the kitchen? - slammed shut. 

 

Then, finally,  _finally,_ Blaine let himself really feel what he’d felt since he’d sat Marcus down the previous evening and told him he was pregnant.

Regret. Anger. Sadness. Terror. Rejection. Abandonment. 

And that didn’t even cover the half of it.

Marcus had stared at him blankly across the table, his brow furrowed in apparent confusion. "You’re what?“ 

Blaine had repeated what he’d said a few seconds earlier;  _I’m pregnant_. 

Marcus had scraped his chair back, stood up, walked across the room to their bedroom, and slammed it shut.

Then the throwing had started.

Books, photo frames, even the pillows on the bed had all been thrown at the walls, the back of the door, landing with a  _thump-smack-thud_  in quick succession as Blaine had sat alone at the table, grinding his jaw to stop it from quivering as tears burned in his eyes. He didn’t want Blaine around any more. He didn’t want to have a baby with him. He didn’t want to make it work, so what was the point in trying? 

***

The morning shift was  _definitely_  always the worst.

Waking up late hadn’t put Kurt in the best of moods as he’d hurried to make coffee and shove a piece of toast in his mouth while simultaneously buttoning his work shirt  _and_  making sure he had all his papers and books he needed for that day’s classes at NYADA. His hair had to be left the way it was, untidy and sticking up in random places as he rushed for the subway, jumping into the car just in time for it to clatter and rumble away into the depths of below-ground New York city. He was pressed between tired-looking lawyers and businessmen and accountants, one woman in a deep purple suit already conducting some kind of meeting through her cell as she examined the manicured nails of her free hand.

He made it to the diner with minutes to spare, tying his apron around his waist just as Maria was about to accost him for being late. He raised himself to his full height, plastered a not-entirely-genuine smile on his face, and greeted the first of the customers waiting at the counter.

***

Standing on the sidewalk outside Marcus’ apartment, with only a suitcase and several cardboard boxes to his name, Blaine felt utterly and completely lost.

A few days ago, he’d had a boyfriend and school and a place to live and he was  _happy_. Now, he had none of those things, and he certainly wasn’t happy.

He had said little to Marcus as he was leaving. There was nothing he  _wanted_  to say. He’d made his feelings clear; he didn’t want Blaine around any more. He didn’t want to have a baby with him. He didn’t want to make it work, so what was the point in trying? 

Blaine’s stomach growled, alerting him to the fact that he hadn’t eaten yet that day. After spending almost an hour in the bathroom that morning, throwing up, he’d felt too nauseous to eat, had satisfied himself with sipping a glass of orange juice and holding his breath when Marcus had fried bacon for his own breakfast.

He suddenly felt very, very hungry.

Balancing the boxes carefully on top of his suitcase, he started off in the direction of the NYADA campus, and tried not to feel too much regret as he passed the main building. He’d quit the very same day he’d found out he was pregnant, walked into his tutor’s office and made it quite plain that he wasn’t staying for the rest of the semester - or for the next three years, for that matter. It had been impulsive, yes, but he’d also been acting on instinct. He wanted this baby. He wanted to take care of it and love it and be its father, even if Marcus didn’t want to.

Eventually he ended up in front of a place advertising itself as the Spotlight Diner. It was busy inside, but Blaine spotted an empty table near the corner, which was just as well, because he really didn’t feel like talking or being talked to right now. 

Pushing open the glass doors, he was greeted by  _noise;_ whirring machines, clattering cutlery, the cash register sliding open and closed, people talking, the wait staff moving among the tables and up and down the long counter in the middle of the diner, taking orders. Keeping his head down (and trying not to breathe in too deeply - fast food didn’t really agree with him lately), he made his way to the empty table he’d seen through the window.

Upon sitting down, the weight of everything that had happened in the last few days seemed to fall on him at once; shoulders shaking of their own volition, he hunched over and put his head in his hands, wanting to sink into the linoleum floor of the diner and disappear forever. But he couldn’t do that.

Instead, he cried.

The noise of his heaving sobs were lost in the cacophony of the diner, but he didn’t care. There was so much inside him that he needed to get out, pain and fear and rage and hurt. He cried for himself, because he was alone; he cried for Marcus, because he’d been too selfish to do the right thing; and he cried for his baby, just a tiny, barely-there life for the moment, but who would soon grow and develop and depend on Blaine for everything, and who would love him instantly and unconditionally, not in the way that Marcus had. 

The thought was as terrifying as it was soothing.

He didn’t realize that someone had tapped him on the shoulder till he finally looked up and reached for a napkin to dry his eyes and face with, sniffing hard. Once he’d blinked away the tears still starring his eyes, he saw that it was one of the wait staff, a boy who didn’t look much older than him, with messy brown hair and clear blue eyes that were looking right at him with a mixture of sympathy and concern. 

"I’m fine,” he said, once he’d found his voice. He twisted the napkin round and round between his fingers has he spoke. “Really. You don’t have to look at me like that.”

The waiter didn’t look away. “Rough day?”

 _The worst_. “You could say that.”

“Do you want something to eat? Or to drink? I hear camomile tea is good for when you’re upset. Or would you rather coffee?”

“Oh, no, I can’t drink coffee,” Blaine replied, without thinking. “But camomile tea would be nice.”

“I’ll be right back,” said the waiter with a smile - a smile bright enough even to lift Blaine’s own low spirits as he rubbed at his nose with the napkin and balled it up in his fist, trying to get his emotions under control before the waiter came back with his tea. 

Shortly, he returned. “One camomile tea. You didn’t specify a size so I made it a large - you look like you need it.”

“Thanks,” Blaine said, taking the cup from the waiter and rummaging around in his pockets for spare change. He pulled out three dollars and placed them on the table in front of him. 

“I’m Kurt,” the waiter said suddenly. “Kurt Hummel.”

“Blaine Anderson,” Blaine replied. “Why are you telling me your name?”

“Because in five minutes, I go on my break,” the waiter - Kurt - explained, that same smile on his face again. “And I’d like to sit with you. If you want me to.”

“That - that’s really nice of you,” Blaine replied, staring at the rim of his cup so that Kurt wouldn’t see that his face had reddened, and not from crying. “You don’t have to.”

“Do you want me to?” Kurt asked.

Blaine looked up. “Will you judge me if I say yes?”

“Not at all.”

“Then yes. I’d really like it if you came and sat with me.”

Kurt’s smile brightened. “Then I’ll see you in five minutes!”

***

It was impulsive, and more than a little reckless, but the moment he’d seen the cute guy in the blue cardigan sit down at the corner table, he’d been drawn to him. He’d looked so dejected, trailing a suitcase and several cardboard boxes behind him, that something in Kurt had pushed its way to the surface and told him,  _Go over to him_.

When he’d got to his table and found him crying, it had taken all of his self-restraint not to sit himself down across from him and demand to know what had him so upset. 

The boy - Blaine - had tugged at Kurt’s heartstrings, making him want to reach out and help him. 

And he  _was_  very, very cute; bright eyes, dark hair, smooth, tan skin. Very Gene Kelly, very classic Hollywood. Kurt would be lying if he hadn’t thought him attractive, or that it was one of the reasons why he’d been interested in him. 

Three minutes until he was allowed to have his break, and then he could go and talk to Blaine properly. Not as his waiter, but hopefully, as something resembling a friend.

***

When Kurt came back five minutes later, as promised, Blaine was feeling much better. The tea had worked to soothe much of his shaky nerves, the heat of the liquid calming him, drawing away much of the pain that had consumed him. 

He greeted as Kurt as he sat down across from him, carrying his own large coffee. It smelled delicious, and Blaine’s mouth watered, but he pulled himself up short with a sharp mental reminder that he wasn’t allowed to drink coffee now. Not for the next nine months, at least. No caffeine - of any kind. 

“That smells good,” Blaine said, nodding in the direction of Kurt’s coffee. “I wish I could drink it, but…I can’t.” He steeled himself, watching Kurt’s face carefully for any trace of a reaction as he spoke his next words. “I’m…pregnant. I left my boyfriend because he didn’t want the baby. So now I guess I’m on my own, and I have nowhere to go so I’m here.”

Kurt stared in disbelief for a moment, his mouth open - then promptly closed it, and the same concerned expression that he’d worn earlier returned. “You’re - by yourself? In the city? Where are you living?”

“Um,” Blaine said nervously, taking a gulp of his tea, “nowhere? I was living with my boyfriend, but, well, that’s not happening any more.”

“That’s the saddest thing I’ve heard in a long time,” Kurt blurted, eyes widening moments later as he realized what exactly he’d said. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it to sound like that.”

“It’s okay. I guess I just have to figure something out, otherwise I’m going to be sleeping on a park bench for the next nine months." 

"You shouldn’t joke about that,” Kurt said softly, suddenly serious. “Don’t joke about something like that.”

“If I don’t joke, I’ll start crying again,” Blaine admitted. “I just can’t believe something like this has happened to me. I thought he loved me, and…I was stupid enough to believe him.”

“It’s not stupid to believe in love,” Kurt replied. 

“Isn’t it?” Blaine asked. He drained the last of his tea, lukewarm now, but still good. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to dump all this on you. You probably have better things to worry about than talking to pregnant, homeless college dropouts.”

“I’m intrigued by you.” Kurt said. “And I like you. The very fact that you’re feeling what you’re feeling proves that you’re a passionate, caring person. And I like passionate, caring people.”

Blaine ducked his head, feeling his cheeks go warm for the second time that morning. Passionate and caring? Some people would say obsessive and naive. People like Marcus, for one. 

 _Don’t think about him_ , he told himself firmly.  _He’s not worth it_. 

Kurt gulped the remains of his coffee, standing up from the table. “I have to get back to work. I don’t mean to leave you hanging, because I know you’re upset and you can probably do with a friendly ear, but my boss will kill me if I clock back in so much as a second late. Can I get you another camomile tea for the road?”

“Please,” Blaine said, fishing more dollar bills out of his pocket.

When he went to put them on the table with the others, Kurt put up a hand in protest. 

“Oh, no. This one’s on me. I won’t tell if you won’t.” He winked conspiratorially, making Blaine’s stomach swoop in a way that nothing to do with morning sickness. 

“Thank you.” It came out as a whisper, barely audible above the babble of the rest of the diner’s patrons. He wasn’t even sure if Kurt heard him or not. 

Blaine watched Kurt leave and disappear behind the counter, out of sight. He strangely missed his presence, which was ridiculous, because they’d only just met. They barely knew each other. All he knew of Kurt was his name; and vice versa. It was hardly appropriate to start pining after someone he knew nothing about, especially since he’d only just broken up with his boyfriend. 

Still. Kurt was different. He’d proven that when he’d sat down and talked to him as if they’d known each other for years.

When Kurt came back with his second camomile tea, there was a strange expression on his face, something Blaine couldn’t place. He placed it on the table and scooped up the dollar bills for the first cup, tucking them into the pocket of the apron around his waist without a word. Then he walked off again.

Puzzled, Blaine reached for the suitcase and the boxes, grabbing his tea with his free hand. A piece of paper that had been tucked into the cardboard sleeve fluttered to the table. Curious, Blaine reached for it and unfolded it.

On it was a number - a cell phone number. Kurt’s. Underneath he’d written,  _Same time tomorrow? If not, call me._ _  
_

And under that, there was an address - for a hostel a few blocks away from the diner. Kurt had written that it was specifically for young people in Blaine’s situation, very reputable, and that he should check in for a few nights at least.

Finally, he’d written,

_Please don’t spend the night on a park bench._

_\- Kurt_

It was enough to make Blaine’s aching heart sing. 

Maybe he wouldn’t have to do this all on his own, after all. 


End file.
